


Stockholm Syndrome

by pastaforeverymeal (iwritetrollfics)



Category: Creepypasta - Fandom, Slender Man Mythos
Genre: Bloodplay, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Eventual Smut, F/M, Knifeplay, Murder Is A Turn-On, Physical Abuse, Proxies, Serial Killers, Shameless Smut, Sort-of Master/Servant, Stockholm Syndrome, Torture, Violent Sex
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-12 01:49:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 16,172
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7079644
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iwritetrollfics/pseuds/pastaforeverymeal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jeff the Killer kidnaps a girl with the purpose of making her his first proxy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. His First Proxy

"There's no way she'd still be alive."

"It's a movie, dude."

"I know that. I'm just saying, her arms are lopped off and she's still running."

"You sure talk a lot for someone with strep."

Maggie gave a dry, throaty cough. The other girl scrunched up her nose and leaned to the other side of the couch.

"I swear to god, if you get me sick-"

"Then it's your own fault. I told you to stay away from me."

"And let my ailing friend housesit all the way out in the boonies by herself? What kind of person would I be?" She swilled the last bit of her beer and dropped the can into a pile at her feet, more than a little drunk now. "You know you appreciate the company."

It was true. Shay could be obnoxious, especially when she drank, but she was a good friend for spending the night with Maggie out here. Craig, the family friend that Maggie was housesitting for, lived almost twenty minutes from town, and it got lonely sitting around watching TV all day and night. The only company that she had had all weekend before Shay came was Tito, and Maggie didn't necessarily care to spend time with him.

Plus, the house was old and just a little creepy. Craig was an enthusiastic hunter, and there was a taxidermied animal in just about every room in the house. On the first day, Maggie had almost screamed when she saw the opossum on the bathroom counter. Mr. Opossum now lived in the laundry hamper, or at least he would until Maggie's stay was over.

"Did you hear that?"

Maggie looked over at Shay and saw that she was sitting upright. The other girl grabbed up the remote and muted the TV.

Silence.

Maggie waited a moment, then relaxed back down into her pile of blankets. She coughed a little. "It's prob'ly just Tito. His chain drags on the porch when he moves."

"It sounded like scratching," Shay said, still frowning.

Maggie pulled her glasses off and rubbed her eyes. It was almost two in the morning. "He scratches on the door sometimes. I think Craig actually lets him in the house when people aren't over, which blows my mind-"

"It didn't sound like a dog. There! There it is again!" Shay sat up on her knees and peered around Maggie into the dimly lit kitchen. "Can't you hear that? It's a tapping noise now."

Maggie scowled and turned the TV off. She knew that her hearing was a little muffled, what with all the mucus clogging her up, but this wasn't the first time she had watched scary movies with Shay. "That's it," she told her firmly. "We're going to bed. I'm not playing this game with you."

"I'm not playing!"

"Well then, we better go upstairs and lock ourselves in tight. Come on." Shay sat still while Maggie gathered up her phone, blankets, and cough medicine, then grudgingly got her own things and followed her up the stairs.

* * *

"Maggie! Maggie, someone just broke in!"

Shaken from sleep, Maggie sat upright and fumbled over the nightstand for her glasses. She got them on and turned over to squint against Shay's cellphone light. "What?" she hissed. "Are you-?"

"They broke the window, I heard the glass-!"

_Thump._

They both started at the noise from downstairs. Shay covered her mouth, her eyes enormous.

"Call the cops," Maggie breathed, a film of sweat already breaking out on her skin. "Now." Shay's hands shook as she misdialed the number once, then twice. Maggie threw the blankets back and placed her socked feet on the floorboards as softly as she could. She crept over to the door to make sure it was locked, then stopped and listened hard. Someone was definitely moving around downstairs.

Shay had finally dialed the number and was whispering to the dispatcher when the footsteps started up the stairs. Maggie hurried away from the door, straining to keep her steps quiet, and pulled at Shay's elbow. She was afraid that the intruder would hear her talking.

The footsteps kept coming.

"Closet," Maggie half-mouthed, half-breathed. She pulled Shay off the bed and pushed her toward the door. It wasn't big enough for them both to hide in, but it would at least muffle Shay's call.

"I need the address-"

Maggie herded the other girl into the closet and rushed the address in the same half-mouthing way. Shay repeated it into the phone, her voice catching. The hunting jackets and winter coats hanging around her quivered with her trembling. Maggie closed the closet door as much as she could before the old hinges threatened to squeak, then dropped to the floor and crawled beneath the bed.

She could see under the door now, but not clearly. There was a shape moving in the hallway. Maggie bit her lip to keep from whimpering when the shape came closer, the footsteps louder. The shape became two as it approached, and then the shapes defined themselves as shoes.

They stopped right outside the bedroom door.

Maggie covered her mouth, her face twisting up when the doorknob was twisted left and right. She looked to her right, trying to see Shay in the closet, but the blankets hanging over the edges of the bed shielded her from view.

The door rattled in its frame like someone was shaking the doorknob, and then the shoes under the door moved backward.

Maggie jumped at the noise of a shoe colliding with wood. She clenched her sweaty fists tighter, nails biting into her palms.

The door flew open with the second kick. It bounced off of the wall so hard that it almost shut again, but the intruder pushed it open. Maggie watched in horror as a pair of dirty converse sneakers stepped into the room.

Maggie held her breath, praying that Shay had had enough time to finish the call and was holding hers too.

The sneakers moved purposely toward the bed. Maggie cringed when she heard the blankets and pillows being yanked aside. They fell to the floor, and suddenly she had a clear line of sight to the closet. She still couldn't see Shay, but she couldn't hear her either. Maybe she finished the call. Maybe the intruder wouldn't find them. Maybe the police would get here and everything would be okay.

The sneakers turned to face the closet, and Maggie almost screamed. They strode right over, and then the door was yanked open.

Shay did scream. Maggie opened her mouth, and she would have made a sound if she could. The intruder fell on top of Shay, and Maggie could see that it was a person in a white hoodie. The clothes in the closet thrashed around as Shay fought the intruder, shrieking all the while. Something flashed in the intruder's hand, and Shay's screams jumped an impossible octave.

" _Go to sleep,"_ a man's voice cut deep and ragged through all of the noise. There was a strange sound, a wet and metallic _shiiick_ , and Shay gave an inhuman sort of squeal. The wet sound happened again, then again, and again, faster and faster, and Maggie understood too well what the man held in his hand. A horrible heat washed over her, and suddenly all of her muscles were coiling and tensing without her willing them to.

 _Run_ , instinct was telling her. _Run now_.

The man was still stabbing at Shay, the awful metallic sound filling the room, when Maggie rolled out from under the bed on the side opposite the closet. The sound stopped as she scrambled upright and bolted for the door, and she looked over her shoulder to see the hooded man jumping up to follow her.

She flew into the hall, almost slipping on the hardwood floor at the top of the stairs. She heard the killer's footsteps, slow and even, behind her. She rushed down the stairs and straight to the front door, colliding hard with it.

Her fingers twisted at the deadbolt, but it refused to turn. Like everything else in the house, the lock was old and required a certain technique that Maggie had struggled with every time.

Footsteps on the stairs.

"Maggie…" the killer called softly to her.

Maggie shoved away from the door, tearing for the kitchen. He knew her name, god, he knew her name. She rushed into the room, giving a hoarse yelp when she stepped on a shard of glass. The pain brought her back then, and she lost a good deal of the steam that had her moving quickly. Body trembling, she twisted her head left and right for a way out, but the shattered window was the only way. Maggie hurried over to it, making strangled noises as she stepped over the broken glass. She reached up to grip the sides of the window and haul herself outside, but immediately cut her hand on a jagged sliver still jutting from the frame. She gave a strangled cry and cradled her hand against her chest. Sticky warmth spread across her pajama top.

The footsteps changed from the hollow _thunk_ of the stairs to a more muffled stepping, and Maggie knew the murderer was in the downstairs hall. She gave up on trying to crawl through the window and started yanking open drawers, looking for a knife, but there wasn't enough time. The best thing that she could find before the killer's shadow was on the kitchen doorframe was a can of Ajax powder.

With no other choice left to her, Maggie turned and threw herself into the walk-in pantry.

The killer came into the kitchen not three seconds after. He held a long knife in his hand and, though it was too dim to see, Maggie knew that it was steeped in blood. He looked at the broken window. Then his head turned to the pantry, and the rest of his body slowly followed.

Cowering between the shelves of preserves and jerky, Maggie knew that he could see her. She trembled violently, clutching the bleach powder in her hands as he took a step forward.

"Come on out, Maggie May," he said, rasping the pet name her mother had always called her. Glass crunched under his sneakers, and he stepped into pantry doorframe, reaching for her.

She flung the open Ajax can in his face.

White powder burst everywhere. Maggie's eyes immediately began to sting as a light cloud of bleach drifted back into her face, but the killer got the worst of it. He gave a howl of pure agony as his face was absolutely plastered with the stuff. He reeled backward, scrubbing violently at his eyes, and through her own tears Maggie saw the knife leave his hand. It clattered to the floor as he doubled over, one long arm outstretched and searching for the sink.

With a surge of fresh adrenaline, Maggie made a rush for the knife and snatched it off the floor. The handle was slick and warm, and it made bile rise in her throat, but she clutched it tightly nonetheless.

The blinded man was fumbling desperately with the sink knobs when Maggie took the knife in both hands and stabbed him in the shoulder. He roared and whirled around, swinging a fist. It was a blind punch, but it grazed the side of her head. She stumbled under the blow, the bloodied handle of the knife slipping away from her as she tripped forward. The killer leapt back at the sink and cranked the water on, leaving Maggie to drag herself upright and stagger into the living room.

Tito was at the back door when she reached it, barking and clawing at the glass. She yanked the blinds away from the sliding door and watched the Newfoundland snap wildly at her under the porch light, the chain attached to his collar straining against his two hundred-pound weight. Another dead-end.

"Ungrateful little _bitch."_

Maggie spun around to see the killer standing hunched in the kitchen doorway. He gripped the doorframe in one hand, his long knife in the other.

She let out a breathless squawk as he shoved off of the doorframe toward her. She lunged around the coffee table, running circles around the furniture to keep a distance between them. The killer snarled when she grabbed up the TV remote and hurled it at him, missing by hardly a few inches. He chased her around the couch once more, then promptly leapt right over it. Maggie let out another soundless shriek as she felt the fingers of his free hand grasp for her trailing hair.

Maggie thumped up the stairs when she reached them. She made it halfway up before the killer snagged the back of her shirt and wrenched her toward him. Her arms flailed for something to grab hold of, but she was falling too quickly.

She tumbled helplessly backward, her head meeting the floor with a _crack_ at the killer's feet.

* * *

Cold. It was so cold.

There was a sharp pain in her belly, like someone was jabbing her. What was happening?

The world was swaying, and she felt a hot pressure in her face like she was upside down. Her nose was brushing against something soft, something that smelled like sweat and dirt. She cracked her eyes open, fighting the pain in the base of her skull, and saw the back of someone's legs in the dim light.

"Aah," she wheezed when the person carrying her lurched suddenly. Their boney shoulder was what was hurting her belly. She wriggled a little, and the person stopped moving. Blood rushed in her ears as the world flipped, giving her a brief view of the moonless night sky cluttered with tree branches. The ground came up under her feet, but she wasn't ready to stand yet; she fell, landing on her shoulder in the tall grass. There was an awful pain in her wrists when she tried to move her hands, and she realized that they were bound behind her.

She gasped as she was roughly turned onto her back. The killer loomed over her, his hood still drawn up around his face. He pounced on her, sitting hard on her abused belly and pinning her beneath him. He drew the long knife out of his hoodie pocket and pressed the bloodied edge up under her jaw.

"Don't scream, and don't run," he growled. "Not unless you want to go to sleep for real. Understand?"

Maggie nodded, making the gesture as small as she could to keep from being cut. The killer seemed satisfied with that and took his knife away. He stood up and pulled her onto her feet.

"Walk," he said, shoving her forward. She stumbled a little, but caught herself. She walked.

Without a moon in the sky, and with all of the trees in the way, it was difficult to tell what time it was. Maggie wasn't sure how long she had been unconscious. It was still horribly dark, and without her glasses she found herself twice as badly off. She tripped over roots and tangled grass constantly, and one time fell so hard on her front that she barely avoided smashing her nose flat. The killer had laughed at her, a dark and gritty sound, then hauled her upright and pushed her forward again.

They walked for hours, and then the sky started to turn pink through the trees. Maggie was limping by then, her feet bloody and torn by rocks and stickery branches. She didn't dare stop, though, for fear that the killer would stab her with the knife that she knew was hovering behind her back. Her head continued to throb, and the cold burned her suffering lungs. Sweat stung the slice in the palm of her left hand.

The tangled forest eventually began to clear, but only after a grueling uphill climb that left Maggie with more than one bruise on her knees. She heard a truck trying to start, and then voices. Her heart fluttered at the sounds, but then the killer promptly wrapped an arm around her and pulled her tight to his side. The tip of his knife prodded her ribs warningly, and she looked down to see him holding the weapon inside his hoodie pocket.

"Don't you say a fucking word," he hissed down into her ear.

They skirted a trailer park, then several rundown houses. Maggie began to recognize the area when they came across a wide dirt road, and she knew even without her glasses that they were near the old coal mines. Her grandfather had lived up here until three years ago, when he'd been moved to a home.

Home. Home had to be twenty-five miles off by now! Maggie bit her lip, her eyes welling up. The killer dug his fingers into her arm when her shoulders started to shake, but she didn't make a sound. She couldn't.

They passed the junction that would have taken them into town, then her grandfather's empty house. They continued into a neighborhood full of beat-up and abandoned houses.

The killer led her up to a two-story house at the edge of the woods. It might have been a beautiful thing once, but it had long since passed the point of repair. Paint that had probably been white now flaked off of the paneling in gray sheets. The windows and front door were boarded up with graffitied plywood, and the front porch was falling in. Remnants of a wrought-iron fence surrounded the cluster of grass and weeds that served as a lawn.

They walked around the back of the house and up onto the crumbling back porch. The back door wasn't boarded, and the killer pushed it open. He forced Maggie inside and shut it behind him.

In the little light that filtered through the cracks in the plywood, Maggie saw with her limited vision that the inside of the house was just as bad as the outside. Garbage, old clothes, moth-eaten furniture, and graffiti littered the place. A small mattress was pushed up into the corner of the room. Empty beer cans and liquor bottles surrounded it.

Maggie made a startled sound when the killer clamped his hand on her shoulder. He marched her over to the wall opposite the mattress where a radiator was rusting, and then forced her down next to it.

"Don't move," he threatened, and then he was going over to the piles of things next to the dirty mattress. He brought back a length of coarse rope, and a silent sob wracked Maggie's chest. What was he going to do to her?

The killer put the rope down beside her and drew the knife from his hoodie. He forced her to lean forward, and she cringed, thinking that he was going to stab her. The knife blade, cool and crusted with blood, settled itself between her wrists; there was sharp, popping sound, like a zip-tie breaking, and then the pulsing pressure on her skin was gone. She tried to bring her stiff arms in front of her, only to have the killer push the knife up against her throat.

"I said don't fuckin' move!" he snapped. The blade nicked her skin, and Maggie froze. The killer grabbed her hands roughly with one of his, then put the knife down beside his shoe and started binding her wrists with the rope. He knotted the remaining short length to the radiator and grabbed up the knife again.

Maggie watched fearfully as the killer inspected his work, tugging on the knots and making her wince. He muttered to himself, walking around her and tapping the knife's blade against the side of his thigh. She caught a glimpse of his mouth in the darkness of the hood, and she realized that something about the shape of it wasn't quite right. Before she could get a better look, the killer turned around and brandished his knife at the air in front of him.

"Don't tell me what to _do_ ," he hissed, his hushed voice rising enough for Maggie to hear. Her skin crawled as he swore a string of curses at someone that she couldn't see, and then stalked over to one of the boarded-up windows. He gripped the sides of his head and broke into a fit of gravelly cackling. The word _schizophrenic_ came to mind, and the thought made Maggie despair even more.

"… because she's gonna say yes!" The killer was almost shouting now. He pointed the knife at the wall, his arm quivering with anger. "I'll show you, I'll show you right now." Maggie quailed against the cold, rough metal of the radiator as the killer whirled and stomped over to her. He dropped onto his knees and grabbed hold of her hair with his free hand, holding the knife against the skin beneath her eye with the other.

"Maggie May, I gotta show this fucker." He whispered the words as though he were confiding a secret. "But first, I gotta show you somethin'…" He let go of her hair and fished in his hoodie pocket, withdrawing her glasses. He rammed them on her face, then reached up to his hood and pulled it back.

Maggie's lips parted in slack terror, eyes glossing. There wasn't enough air in the room, or maybe her lungs just wouldn't expand.

Lank, black hair spilled out of the killer's hood, falling longer than hers by a good six inches. It framed his lean face like curtains, contrasting heavily with the whiteness of his skin. Not pale, but white like a corpse. There was a leathery and uneven texture to it, too, like the flesh of a burn victim.

He smiled down at her when her eyes traced his disfigured nose, the corners of his lips pulling up to meet a set of dark and jagged scars that cleaved halfway up to his ears. But it was his enormous eyes, and the way they glittered at her with only the most remote sliver of sanity, that had every hair on her body standing straight up.

His eyelids were _gone_. There was blackened scar tissue surrounding the sockets, marking separate burns on top of the one that had melted his nose.

The killer's lips twisted up further, and Maggie barely registered his voice drawling low and soft to her.

"Aren't I beautiful? I can make you beautiful too, maybe. When you've earned it." His gleeful expression vanished, replaced by a thunderous look in the blink of an eye. He tilted his head down to look at her hard, and the angle cast shadows over him that transformed his face into a grinning skull.

"Wanna know somethin', Maggie May?" his voice deceptively soft. "No matter how good you are, no matter how kind and sweet, this world is gonna _fuck you."_ He pressed the cold flat of the knife into her cheek harder as the enunciated the last two words. "And you're so fuckin' sweet. A goddamn _saint._ It was only a matter of time before you got what you deserved."

Maggie cringed when he took hold of her face in his hand. His grip wasn't tight, but his fingers were cold and boney. The dark expression on his face turned mischievous, and he trailed the knife down to rest against her lower lip.

"How did we meet?" he asked, tapping the blade against her gently. Maggie looked down her nose at the knife and shook her head as carefully as she could. The killer pressed the blade down, parting her lips until he could touch her front teeth with the tip. It took everything in her power to not pull away from the crusted tang of blood.

"Think, Maggie May. You need to get the answer right, because if you don't I'm gonna carve my name on the roof of your mouth. Sound good?" The look of shock and horror on her face made him toss his head back and laugh. He stroked her cheek with his free hand, shooshing her. "Shh shhhh, it's okay. I'm gonna give you a hint first. Think, think. We were at the park."

Maggie was absolutely certain that she didn't know this psycho personally, but had she seen him somewhere? At the park, like he said? She thought hard, but it was difficult with him tapping her front teeth with that filthy knife. She stopped looking down at the weapon and closed her eyes, sweat already beginning to bead in her hairline. Christ, god, think!

The last time she had gone to the park had been that evening with Shay over a week ago, and… yes. Yes, she did remember something. A guy in a white hoodie, homeless-looking. He had been digging through the trash that some picnickers had left behind. Shay had stopped tossing the frisbee and pointed him out to her.

"Dude. Fucking _gross_ ," she had said, her face a mixture of disgust and amusement. Maggie remembered watching the guy shovel the scraps into his hood like he was starving, remembered how guilty she had felt.

"Don't laugh," she hissed at the other girl. "It's not funny."

"He can't hear me."

"It doesn't matter, it's not funny!"

Maggie looked from Shay to where the guy was crouching and was startled to see him watching them. He dropped something half-eaten from his hand and stood up. Shay muttered something about going home, but Maggie ignored her. They had two paper bags with them, full of a sandwich and a half and the last can of beer. Plus, there were plenty of other people at the park still, enough to come to their aid if the guy ended up trying anything weird.

She raised an arm and waved to him, drawing a hiss out of Shay. "Hey! Did you want to play frisbee with us?" The guy didn't move, and he didn't say anything back. Shay grabbed Maggie's arm.

"Dude, don't," she said. "I don't want him coming over here."

Maggie shrugged her off. "He's hungry. I'm gonna give him the sandwiches when he comes over."

"Then why the fuck did you ask him to play fucking frisbee?!"

"Because it would have been rude to-"

"Well, fucking look at that. Doesn't matter 'cause he's walking away."

Maggie turned back and saw the guy disappearing off into the woods that bordered the park. She gave Shay a sharp look, then snatched up the bags and ran after him. By the time she reached the lining of poplars and cottonwoods, though, he was completely out of sight. She called after him. No answer came from the woods, and so she left the bags on a nearby picnic table.

Yes. She remembered everything. Back in the cold, abandoned house, Maggie opened her mouth wider around the knife to speak.

"You did this… because I gave you food?" she whispered, confused and terrified. The killer pulled the blade from her mouth to lay it against her nose. He glided the flat of it back and forth slowly, an almost dreamy look in his unblinking eyes.

"You're just the light of everyone's fuckin' life," he said softly, but there was an underlying malice to his words. "Ms. Fuckin' Perfect. It didn't take me a week to figure that out. The way everyone looks at you, and you have so many goddamn friends. That one girl, though, she was a cunt. I really did you a favor. What was her name? Sheri? "

Maggie eyes welled hotly. "Shay," she croaked.

The killer giggled, a shrill and unexpected sound, and let go of her completely. He rocked backward, folding his long legs under him and resting the knife on his knee.

"That's right! Shay. I picked her first, you know. I was gonna take her to him after I'd killed you both, but all she did was scream. _You_ , though…" he trailed off. Maggie watched him absently reach up to touch his bloodied shoulder, staring blankly at the floor. It was a moment before he lifted his gaze to her again, but when he did his eyes positively glimmered with madness. "You're gonna be perfect," he whispered.

Maggie swallowed, steeling herself for the answer to the question she was about to ask. "Perfect for what?"

The killer leaned forward, causing her to press back into the radiator. "For me, Maggie May," he grinned. He reached up and stroked her face, ignoring her when she leaned her head back as far as she could from him. His cold fingers trailed down her jaw and neck then, slow and careful. Maggie tensed when he cupped her breast through the thin pajama top.

He squeezed her hard, and she jerked.

The killer burst into a fit of laughter and leapt upright, knife in his hand. "You're gonna be my first proxy!" he crowed. He sliced the knife excitedly through the air a few times, stalking back and forth. "You'll go with me everywhere, do everything I want... And you don't get to go to sleep until I say!"

Proxy? Maggie didn't recognize that word. She watched the killer walk circles around the room, waving the knife and jabbering to himself. It was several minutes before he calmed somewhat and stopped pacing. He put the knife in his hoodie pocket, ran his fingers through his greasy hair. He turned his back to her and started talking to the imaginary person again.

"No, she'll be a good girl," he said. He was quiet for a moment, as though listening to someone else talk. "Sure, I fuckin' know. The big, white house by the park. Yeah. Yeah, I know..."

Maggie listened, wide-eyed, as the killer related details about her to the air in front of him. He knew what kind of car she drove, where she worked, what apartment complex she lived in. He even rattled off some of her roommates' names. A cold, leaden weight sunk in her belly a moment later when he started talking about her parents and her little brothers, how the youngest of them had just turned eleven and still slept with a nightlight. He knew that the spare front door key was inside the birdhouse by the kitchen window.

The killer talked a while longer with himself, occasionally getting angry and snapping curses, before falling silent and going over to the mattress. He kicked beer cans out of his way to get to a plastic bucket in the corner. Maggie watched him yank a rag out of it, dripping wet. He wrung the thing irritably, then threw himself down the mattress, muttering something too soft for her to hear as he folded the rag up and draped it over his eyes. He pulled a filthy blanket up to his waist and went still, one hand in his hoodie pocket where the knife was still tucked.

Maggie watched him, counting the minutes silently to herself as his breathing slowed. Her throat itched, and she needed to cough so badly that her eyes watered, but she choked the reflex back to keep from making noise. Twenty minutes. The killer hadn't moved once. Maggie stretched her fingers and felt carefully for the knots that secured her to the radiator, sucking in a breath when the moving around tugged at the gash in her palm. It was so quiet in the old house that she could have sworn she heard the wound reopen.

Her fingers searched and searched, but found nothing but straight rope; the killer must have looped the knot out of her reach. She bent over, stretching her stiff arms as far back as they would go to keep feeling for the knot. Not a minute more passed before the killer called softly to her, not moving an inch as he spoke:

"Maggie May, if you pull on that rope one more time I'll stab your whole fuckin' family to death."


	2. Through the Woods

Maggie sat with her knees drawn up to her body, staring hollowly at her sleeping kidnapper. The swell and collapse of his chest as he breathed was slow and even, almost hypnotic. It made her eye lids feel heavier, and before she knew it she was jerking her head out of a slow dip to her knees.

The hurting had kept her awake at first; the bits of glass in her feet, the cuts in her wrists from the zip-tie, the throbbing knot on the back of her head. Then, the cold took over. That hurt too, but only until it numbed her. After that there was nothing keeping her eyes open except her own willpower, and that was fast fading.

She had thought about trying to wriggle free again, keep testing the ropes while the killer slept, but she was too haunted by his threat to her family to do anything but sit quietly. She would be able to scream in a few days maybe, if she lived that long. There were voices outside sometimes, dogs barking. People were close by. All it would take would be one good shriek, and they would come running. There was no need for her to become a martyr. The killer would be caught, and her family would be safe.

Her head bobbled again, and her eyes flickered shut; this time she didn't have the strength to open them again.

* * *

Maggie brought her arms above her head and flexed them. It felt good to stretch after being bound for so long. She opened her eyes lazily and smiled when she saw a spread of stars winking down at her through the trees. A warm breeze skimmed her skin, rustling the grass and setting the branches to swaying lightly. Everything smelled like dark earth.

A footstep behind her caught her attention, but didn't startle her. She tilted her head back to look, upside-down, at whoever was here with her.

It was a boy in a mask.

Maggie rolled easily onto her belly and propped up on her elbows to get a good look at the boy standing not ten feet away from her. The full-faced mask he wore was simple; it was white, with delicate eyebrows and carefully shaped lips painted on in black. His tan jacket, which looked too heavy for the warm weather, was zipped up to his throat. It looked as though he might be carrying something underneath it, but Maggie didn't pay that much mind.

She waggled her fingers in greeting, and the boy gave a little wave back. Boy. She kept thinking that he looked too tall to be called that, but the mask was so sweet and child-like to her. The wind blew again, making his dark hair drift around the edges of his mask.

He gestured for her to come to him, and she levered herself up into a sitting position. She shook her head, grinning playfully and holding her arms out to him. The boy didn't hesitate to come to her and take her hands in his cool ones. He pulled her upright easily, and then linked his arm through hers.

They started walking.

Maggie was still barefoot, but there were no glass bits in her soles now, and no branches in her path to step on. The grass didn't trip her, but instead cushioned her feet in a dewy blanket, and not once did a prickly thorn-bush snag at her pajamas. She did have to go over a log, but the boy went first and held her hand like a gentleman while she climbed over.

She found herself leaning into him once she was on her feet again, and she didn't bother to pull away when they started moving. A musky-sweet smell clung to him, like old pine needles and damp earth. Maggie inclined her head toward him, breathing in the scent shamelessly, and the boy leaned his head affectionately down against hers.

It wasn't long before someone else joined them.

This boy wore a yellow hoodie and a ski mask with a sad face stitched onto it. There was a handgun in a holster on his hip, and a hunting rifle strapped to his back. He was lankier and a little taller than the masked boy, but not by much. He walked right up alongside Maggie and crooked his arm through hers. Unlike the masked boy, he immediately viced her tightly to his side as though he were afraid she would let go. She leaned her head against his shoulder to assure him that she wouldn't, and his grip slackened a little. The bitter scent of gunpowder, strong but not unpleasant, reached her nose.

They picked up the pace once the boy in the hoodie joined them, and it became clear to Maggie that they were taking her somewhere. Several times the two of them looked around her at each other, like they were having some sort of silent conversation. She didn't mind not being included. In fact she relished being able to walk along without talking, focusing purely on the crickets and the crunch of their steps.

The trees started to grow thick, old and tangled up in each other. It was oftentimes difficult for them to walk side-by-side, and one of them would have to break from the chain to trail behind. Maggie always clung to Hoodie Boy, even though she might have liked Mask Boy better, because Hoodie Boy seemed so anxious about her going off somewhere. Mask Boy was always quick to catch up and hook her by the arm again, though.

She wasn't sure when exactly it began, or what triggered it, but eventually she realized that an unpleasant tingling sensation was creeping up her arms. At this point the trees were growing so close together that she couldn't walk with both boys at her sides anymore. She looked around a little nervously, slowing her steps and seeing for the first time just how dark it was here in this part of the forest. Mask Boy gave her a reassuring wave when she looked over her shoulder at him, but then Hoodie Boy squeezed her arm hard and pulled her along faster with him. She turned back around and saw a pale glow through the gnarled branches and trunks, and realized that there was a clearing up ahead with a single skinny tree growing in its center. The unpleasant tingling was replaced with a hair-standing chill.

She didn't want to go into the clearing, and especially not near that tree.

Hoodie Boy turned impatiently on her when she started to dig her heels into the loam, but then Mask Boy appeared and linked his arm into her free one. He squeezed just as hard as Hoodie Boy when they began forcing her forward.

They dragged her into the clearing, right up to the skinny tree, and Maggie screamed. Rather, she tried to, but no sound came out; not even a shrill, wheezy sound. She could feel the force behind her noise, could feel the air bursting out of her lungs, but the only thing she could hear was the crickets' chirping.

The tree wasn't a tree, but a man in a black suit and narrow tie. Rather, it looked like a man. The creature was over twice her height, with a stretched and spindly frame. Its face, when it tilted down to her, was a blank and unsettling expanse of white flesh; no eyes, no mouth, no nose. There was something on its face that contorted slightly, a rippling of shadows over the skin, like a wide smile.

Maggie didn't realize that her knees had given out until the boys let go of her arms and stepped away. She looked up at the creature's eyeless face, and sense of dread overwhelmed her. It lifted one of its long arms from its side, reaching and bending down over her at the same time. The curve to its body was unnatural; not a fold at the waist like a person, but a jagged and many-jointed arch like a bowed branch.

The thing extended a single finger –no, a claw- and she closed her eyes, certain that she would die. She felt the razor tip touch her forehead, but no pain came; instead, a floating feeling surrounded the part of her mind that was afraid, then plucked it up and out of her completely.

Maggie watched in wonder as the creature lowered onto one of its knees, bringing its face closer to her. It threaded its wicked claws through her hair, and she knew, though she wasn't sure how, that it was being careful to not cut her. The idea made her smile, and suddenly she felt guilty for having been afraid. The creature inclined its head, as though it could hear her thoughts, and a warm and forgiving feeling enveloped her.

She knew when the creature wanted her to lift her chin, and not a fiber of her being objected to doing so. A strong sense of approval mingled with the warmth coursing through her, and then there was a brief pain beneath the hollow of her throat. She looked down and saw that the creature had used its claw to cut a symbol on her chest, a circle with an X through it. Blood trickled down between her breasts, but the wound hardly hurt. She smiled back up at the creature, and it reflected her joy.

The boys reappeared at her sides then, peering at the mark. Mask Boy put his hands on his hips and flicked his chin smugly at his companion, but the other boy didn't have time to react before Maggie, encouraged by the warmth and joy emanating from the creature, promptly reached up to touch it.

The creature snapped upright with the sound of cracking branches, sending Mask Boy and Hoodie Boy recoiling backward. Maggie was not so quick; confused, hurt, and able to be afraid again of the horrific anger that the creature was suddenly projecting toward her, she stood rooted to the spot as the creature's arms crackled out to its sides. It wasn't until its white face split open into a set of monstrous jaws, gaping impossibly wide, that she tried to run at all. The boys were disappearing into the tree line when she whirled to follow them, and she screamed for them to wait for her. Not even Mask Boy looked over his shoulder.

Desperate to follow them once she made it into the trees, Maggie didn't let her eyes leave the boys' sprinting forms. She didn't see the thick, vine-like shape shooting alongside her until it was too late; the dark and sinewy thing darted around her ankle, coiling tight around it. She opened her mouth to scream, but the sound was cut short as the thing pulled taught, yanking her leg out from under her. Her chin bounced against the packed dirt, sending her teeth crashing together and almost taking the tip of her tongue off, and then she was being reeled back toward the creature. She gurgled blood and scrabbled frantically at the ground, trying to gain purchase anywhere she could, but there was nothing except cold, hard earth.

She dared to look over her shoulder and saw that sinewy vine extended back to the creature, and was one of many that whipped and drifted around its back like long tendrils under water. The creature itself had changed too, and could no longer be mistaken for a man; what had looked like a black suit earlier was now some sort of dark pigmentation on its skin, the tie at its neck a separate mouth that gaped and snapped, its arms and legs jointed backwards and in too many places.

A black, oily substance dribbled from its jaws in glistening strands as it dragged her closer, pulling faster now. Maggie felt her fingernails snap and splinter as she clawed at the ground, but it was no use. She was underneath the creature now, and it was hunched over her, caging her beneath it. Other tendrils found her, snaking around her body and flipping her onto her back. They pulled her limbs taught, holding her still as the creature brought its face close to hers.

Hot death, rotting and sickly sweet, blew over her as the creature exhaled. She retched, her eyes and nose burning. Its jaws popped then, and began to split impossibly wider. Through her blurred vision Maggie saw chitin-like plates raising up over the creature's skin as its narrow chest swelled, and through the tendrils she felt it trembling with some sort of effort. The creature jolted once, twice, and then brought its face so close to Maggie's that they almost touched.

A torrent of black sludge gushed from its jaws, filling her nose and eyes. She had the good sense to keep her mouth closed, but only until the burning began. A blinding pain, like pressing flesh against white-hot metal, ignited slowly wherever the sludge spread. Maggie's lips parted to scream when her eyes began to melt, and the acrid oil kept flowing until she was choking on it, swallowing it, feeling it swell up in her belly to melt through and leak into the rest of her. She thrashed her head back and forth, maddened with the pain, until the sludge ate through the flesh and muscle of her neck.

All over her body the muscle burned and fell apart in strips. Her bones sizzled to nothing, but still she didn't die. Maggie felt every ounce of pain there was to feel, was acutely aware of every second of it until there was nothing left of her underneath the creature but a bubbling slick of tar.

She was there as the creature straightened and stood on its back legs, its joints popping back and giving it the more recognizable shape of a man. The pigment of its skin shimmered, forming crisp lines to give the illusion of a suit, and the jagged plates flattened smoothly. The mouth at its neck was a tie again, its face a smooth and clean mask. The only bit of it that didn't revert back was the tendrils, which the creature dipped carefully into the black pool that was Maggie at its feet.

Maggie felt the smooth, cold appendages wrap around arms and legs that she didn't have, and then she was pulled upward and out of the pool. Cool air hit her face, and her skin felt so new and keen to the world that it hurt. She sucked the air greedily anyway, expanding her lungs as big as she could. She tasted pine trees and rain.

The creature lifted her up to it, using a tendril to brush away from her eyes some of the oily blackness that was running off of her like water. Maggie stared up into the smooth planes of its face, and this time she waited until she knew that it was all right before she reached upward to touch it. Warmth flooded her in the most intangible way as the creature brought her to rest against it, supporting her now only beneath her legs.

Maggie's fresh, glistening fingers glided over the creature's face, carefully finding the slightest protrusions of cheekbones, a nose, a brow. Despite the consent that the creature projected to her, she kept her fingers away from the jagged thread of a line that marked its mouth. Amusement bubbled in her that was not her own, and she smiled.

 _Maggie_.

"Yes?" she whispered, holding the creature's cool, thin face in her hands.

_Wake up._

* * *

"Wake up!"

She cringed, her eyes flickering. It was cold, and her body was stiff and hurt again. She balked at the unwelcome sensations, and then felt something move against her. The musky sweetness of the forest was gone, replaced by stale blood and sweat. Her eyes opened and saw the killer smirking down at her, his face illuminated by the flashlight standing upright by his knee. His lips were slick with fresh blood.

"Thought you weren't coming back for a minute, there," he said. He had her sideways on his lap, one arm wrapped around her. The ratty blanket he had slept with earlier was draped around her shoulders.

She opened her mouth to speak, but could only cough. The killer didn't even flinch as she hacked into the sleeve of his hoodie. He even went so far as to pat her back a little, though he did it too hard.

"Saw your mark," he said when she'd gotten her breath back. "I cleaned it up a little for you." He licked at his smeared lips, eyes gleaming. Maggie looked down at her chest and saw the symbol from her dream, that strange and terrifying dream, carved neatly there. It shone pink and wet with spit in the flashlight's glow, still oozing the smallest bit of blood. She stared at it, horrified and astonished at once. It stung when the killer brushed his fingers over it.

"It looks good on you," he said, his voice low and soft. Maggie squirmed a little under his touches.

"It hurts."

"It'll be healed up by tomorrow night."

Maggie didn't understand how that was possible, but how was it possible that she had the same mark cut into her from her dream either? The killer could have done it, he certainly had the tools, but hadn't she dreamed the mark first? How would he know about it?

"Did you do it?" she whispered, her eyes finding some bloodstains on his hoodie front that looked awfully new. She looked at his hands and saw that they, too, had blood on them that didn't seem quite dry. The killer followed her eyes. He chuckled.

"Nah," he said. "Not this time. Slender did that for you, just like he did mine."

"Slender?"

The killer shifted her away from him a little, and Maggie gratefully accepted the distance. He pulled the neckline of his threadbare hoodie away, revealing a pale chest covered in a webbing of scars. Maggie felt gooseflesh ripple across her skin when he tapped his finger against a particular scar underneath his jutting collarbone, one in the shape of a circle with an X through it.

"Yours'll look like this tomorrow, as fast as you'll heal," he said, ignoring her question, but Maggie hardly heard him. Her mind was racing, replaying the dream in her head. She could remember all of it, and vividly, like no other dream she'd had before. The boys, the creature, dying, turning into nothing and then turning into… into what? She had become herself again, but something was different. What was the word that the killer had used?

"Proxy," Maggie muttered. Her eyes flicked upward to see the killer watching her intently. "What does that mean?" she asked him.

The killer smiled in a crooked and unpleasant way. "It means lots of stuff," he said. He poked at her mark, dabbing some blood on his fingers and making her wince. "Mostly that you're kinda dead, and you gotta do what I say."

"I'm dead?!" Maggie croaked.

The killer stuck his bloodied and dirty fingers in his mouth, sucking them thoughtfully. "No," he said at length, and Maggie's shoulders relaxed. "Not until you're a full proxy. You're sorta… halfway there, but there's no goin' back."

"Are you… dead? I mean, are you a proxy?" Maggie said. The last word was hardly out of her mouth before the killer shoved her off of his lap and pounced on her, a long knife suddenly in his hand. He pressed the keen blade up under her chin, his teeth bared like an animal and his eyes just as wild.

"I ain't no _proxy_ ," he growled down at her. Maggie felt a hot trickle run across her throat as the knife pressed too hard. The killer looked down and saw the blood, his pupils dilating ever so slightly.

And then he had his mouth on her neck.

Maggie squirmed when the knife was taken away, replaced by the killer's hot tongue. A low sound rumbled in his chest as he lapped roughly at the blood, making the cut sting and run until Maggie thought she couldn't take it anymore. Then, he sat up and licked his lips. His dark eyes burned with a light that made her want to scream.

"I'm gonna cut you loose," he told her, "but don't think you can run from me. All right?"

Maggie nodded, wondering if the muscles in her legs were ready enough to move. The killer turned her on her side beneath him and began sawing through the ropes.

"We got a lot to do, Maggie May," the killer said, a giggle creeping in to his voice. "It's gonna be so much fuckin' fun-" A sharp breath hissed out of him as Maggie flipped over and brought her knee up hard between his legs. He dropped forward, the knife leaving his hand as he curled in on himself. Maggie pushed out from under his body, her stiff arms screaming at the effort. She tried to stand, but her legs wouldn't support her.

She managed to crawl halfway across the room before the killer snatched her by her ankle. She screamed breathlessly, the memory of the tendril grabbing hold of her surging back. The killer hauled her back toward him, snarling at her.

"You fuckin' _whore,"_ he hissed, "I'm gonna rip you in half! Teach you a fuckin' _lesson-"_

Maggie kicked, but her sapped strength lent little conviction to the attack. The killer dragged her beneath him easily, pinning her down with his knee. The knife flashed in his hand. Maggie lifted her arms to protect herself, and the killer batted them away easily. She screeched as the knife plunged into her chest over and over, chipping her bones and shredding holes in her lungs until they filled with gore and she was drowning inside. She clawed at her throat when it all welled up, spurting from her lips and running down the sides of her face.

Seconds passed, and she became only vaguely aware of everything. The killer was leaning over her. She was pretty sure his teeth were in her neck. The knife was moving blindly, raking through her belly, spilling her open and spreading her across the cold, dusty floor. The pain became pressure, and the pressure lifted gradually.

She stopped seeing after that.


	3. The Itch

Maggie awoke to a steady, jarring rumble. Her eyes creaked open, taking in a pickup's beat-up dashboard and bug-splattered windshield. A radio buzzed and crackled, occasionally picking up snatches of some pounding metal song. Her head lolled as the vehicle pulled sharply to the side, and the rumbling stopped.

"'Bout fuckin' time."

She dragged her gaze over and saw the killer in the driver's seat. He was staring straight ahead, his face expressionless save for the carved smile. Even his lidless eyes had a glazed look to them. Maggie tried to move and realized that a seatbelt was cinched around her. She looked down and saw that she was still wearing her shredded pajamas. Every inch of her, from her neck to her knees, was crusted in a dried coating of blood.

"You healed up fine," the killer said without looking at her.

Maggie grimaced at the feel of the blood flaking off her neck when she twisted her head toward the window. The sun had almost fully set, and they were on a highway she didn't recognize. A van blared its horn at them as the killer blew past it, doing well over the speed limit.

"What happened?" Maggie asked, though she could remember most of it. The killer had stabbed her to death, punched her full of holes and then slit her open. She had died… hadn't she?

"Had to punish you," was all the killer said. The jarring sound started up again as the truck veered slowly onto the rumble strip near the edge of the road. Maggie glanced over at the killer and saw, beside a knife handle wedged between the seats, a mostly empty bottle of something tucked against his thigh.

"Maybe you should pull over," she said, wary of the slight bobble of the killer's head whenever the truck moved right and left. He laughed humorlessly at her suggestion, the sound too loud in the confined space of the truck cab.

"What?" he demanded. "So you can jump out?" He turned to her and grabbed hold of her arm with one hand, pulling her roughly across the seat. "He made you _mine_ ," he growled, his wide eyes glittering dangerously. "You can't run from me. We got a _bond_ , like him and the others. I'll always find you, so don't even try it."

Another car honked at them, and the killer let go of her to jerk the truck across both lanes of traffic. Maggie's stomach churned sickly, as much from the erratic driving as from her kidnapper's words.

"I'll show you soon," he muttered. "You won't even wanna run."

Maggie closed her eyes and curled her fingers around the seatbelt, trying to focus elsewhere. Her body ached all over, especially in the places that the killer had stabbed her, but when she felt around those areas there were no wounds. He hadn't lied; everything seemed to have healed, even her sore throat. But how? She reached up and touched the strange marking that the creature had cut into her skin, finding that it was nothing but a raised scar now.

"Hey, you wanna suck my dick?"

Maggie's head turned toward the killer so quickly that her neck popped. He was grinning darkly at the road. He reached down and fumbled to unzip his jeans, casting a mischievous glance in her direction, and Maggie pressed herself as close to the truck door as her seatbelt would allow.

"Oh, come on!" he laughed when he saw the look of horror on her face. "It'll be fun-"

A siren whooped, and blue and red lights flashed in the rearview mirror. Maggie whipped around and saw a police car following them.

"Even better!" the killer crowed, zipping his jeans back up. Then, to Maggie's surprise, he threw on the truck's turn signal and began to slow down. They bumped clumsily over the rumble strip and stopped half off the road, the old truck's brakes screeching as they jerked to a stop. The police car parked a distance behind, and then an officer was stepping out with a flashlight in-hand.

"You ready, Maggie May?" the killer said, watching the officer in the mirror. He reached over quickly and unbuckled her seatbelt, making her jump. He was grinning like a maniac. Maggie recoiled as he yanked the knife out of the seat, but he wasn't intending to stab her this time. Instead, he lifted her thigh and slid the blade under it to hide.

"You're gonna kill this one," he said, his dark eyes boring into hers. "You're gonna slit his throat and taste his blood for me." Maggie gaped at him as he sat back in his seat, the knife pressing cold and sharp against her bare flesh. The window squealed as the killer hand-cranked it open for the approaching officer.

The man shined the flashlight into the cab and peered at the killer. His eyes bugged out of his head.

"Evenin', officer," the lunatic said gleefully. "Was I speeding?"

The officer gawked harder as his light trained on the distraught-looking Maggie in her coating of blood. He immediately drew his sidearm and pointed it at the killer.

"Get out of the vehicle," he ordered, and the killer cackled and nodded. Maggie watched in disbelief as he amiably opened the truck door and hopped out, sending the officer scurrying back a couple of steps in surprise. Despite his lean figure the killer was a big guy, broad-shouldered and tall. The officer was shorter than him by a good six inches, and built more like a barrel.

"Is this good, officer?" the killer teased the man as he leaned over the truck hood and put his hands behind his back. The man cuffed him without a word and then shined his flashlight into the cab again. Maggie held a hand up to shield her eyes.

"That's _my_ girl," the killer said proudly, having twisted his head to look through the windshield at Maggie. "I kidnapped her and stabbed her slut friend to death." The officer listened with a hard expression as the killer began cackling again, and then he spoke quickly into his radio. He moved over to the driver's side window.

"You stay where you are," the officer told Maggie firmly, and then he was hauling the killer off the hood and marching him toward his cruiser. The killer swayed drunkenly as he walked, and the smaller officer seemed to struggle to keep him moving in a straight line.

Maggie watched as the officer stuffed him into the cramped backseat of the cruiser. Just before the killer's white face disappeared, he shouted to her:

"Slice him! Rip him up and drink him!"

The officer barked something, and the killer howled with laughter. The officer slammed the cruiser door and came back to the truck, holding his radio to his mouth as he asked for an ambulance. His other hand rested on his gun.

Maggie turned back around and stared blankly out the dirty windshield, still not entirely believing what had just happened. The crazy idiot had just handed himself over to the police, and why? Because he thought that he could make her stab the police officer?

"All right, ma'am," the officer said, coming up at a safe distance on her side of the truck. "Go ahead and open your door for me, then step out slow."

Maggie reached for the door handle, then faltered. A lot of freaky shit had happened since she'd met the killer. She'd fucking died, for Christ's sakes, and come back to life. Or… whatever her existence was now. She moved on the seat, and the knife shifted smoothly under her leg. What if he _could_ make her hurt someone?

An unpleasant sensation, like a burning itch, started in the back of her skull at the thought of stabbing the officer.

"Ma'am? I need you to open the door now," the man called again.

Maggie reached up and scratched at her head, trying to drive the feeling away. It only made it worse. She rubbed at the spot, cringing when the police officer shined his flashlight at her again; it sent stabbing pains into her eyes, and it all made the itch redouble.

"Open the door!" the officer shouted, weapon drawn now.

"I can't!" Maggie croaked, scratching and rubbing at the itch she couldn't reach. God, it hurt so _bad_. She just wanted it to stop, anything, anything to make it _stop_.

_Kill him._

The officer moved closer to the door and pulled it open himself; he almost gagged when he saw that the floorboard beneath Maggie's feet was stained dark with gore. "Are you all right?" he finally managed to ask, eyeing the panicking girl and looking for wounds. "How much of that is yours?"

" _All of it!"_ Maggie screamed hoarsely, tearing at her hair now. It wasn't just an itch. There were things in there, like fingernails scraping against her skull. Like bugs crawling over it. She had to get them out. The flashlight was too bright, and the man was standing too close. She didn't want him to touch her; she just knew it would make the pain worse. Him just standing there was making it unbearable.

_Slice him._

"Hey, hey. Take it easy, you're safe now," the officer said as Maggie began to sob hysterically. "Can you walk? Here, let me-"

Maggie snatched the knife up and slashed at the man as he reached for her. The blade caught him across the face, and he yelped. Maggie leapt out at him like an animal, falling on top of him as he landed on his back in the dirt. She screamed and slashed wildly at his face and neck, fighting to keep him from pulling his gun in close enough to shoot her.

Far away it seemed, she could hear the killer hooting and rocking the police cruiser in a frenzy.

The officer grabbed blindly, blood coursing into his one good eye, until he took hold of her face. He clawed for Maggie's eyes, desperately trying to deter any more knife swings, but she was wild now; she could feel the awful vibrations of the scratching against her bones, and only one thing would stop it.

 _Slit his_ throat _and taste his_ blood _._

Maggie screamed as the officer's nails gouged her cheek. She drove the knife down in a stabbing motion and felt a solid resistance. The officer's hand tightened on her face, and then was quickly snatched away. She looked down and saw the man clawing at the knife embedded in the cartilage of his throat. He gurgled, blood welling up around the wound and running from the corners of his lips. His teeth were washed red.

Maggie sat on top of him and stared, feeling his chest hitch under her as his lungs filled up. She could remember what that felt like, and she would have cried for the man and for what she had done to him if the itch hadn't miraculously gone away. She touched the back of her head gingerly, and her fingers came away red. She had scratched herself bloody.

There was a sharp crashing sound, like glass shattering, and then the thud of something hitting pavement. Maggie got off of the man, staggering backward to lean against the truck. She stared at the corpse, an arm wrapped around her middle, until the killer's shape cut through the police cruiser's headlights. There were bits of glass in his hoodie as he came over and stood near the body. He smiled at it, his eyes burning with a wicked light, and licked his lips. Then, he turned to Maggie.

She dropped her eyes to the ground as he walked over and stood too close. When she chanced to look upward, she saw that the light in the killer's eyes had changed somewhat. He was staring at her with the same smoldering intensity, but there was a hungry glint there that did a fine job reminding her that she was wearing nothing but a half-shredded set of pajamas. Finally, when she thought she could take no more of the heavy silence, the killer gave a raspy chuckle.

"Not bad, babe," he said. "Not bad at all. Now, get the keys for me."

Maggie looked at him, his hands still cuffed behind his back, then pushed away from the truck and went obediently over to the officer. She moved quickly, reality beginning to set in as she unclipped the keys from the dead officer's belt and brought them to the killer; she was a murderer now. It wouldn't surprise her if the police cruiser's camera had caught everything.

The killer smirked and turned around, holding his hands out for her as she approached with the keys. She fumbled the lock several times, her hands beginning to shake as she wondered what exactly the justice system did to cop-murderers, and the killer fidgeted impatiently. When he was free, he shook the cuffs off and went over to retrieve the officer's gun, taser, and the knife stuck in his throat. He handed the last thing to Maggie and then eyed her up and down again.

"Felt good, didn't it?" he said, smirking now.

"It made it go away," was all Maggie could manage. The killer nodded understandingly.

"Yeah," he said. "The itch. I got it too, now. Come on."

Maggie let him take her arm and pull her over to the truck. He opened the door for her and she climbed in, the bloodied knife slick in her hands.

* * *

They exited the highway and took to the backroads that snaked out into the country. It would be difficult for the police to find them out here, but the killer was still intent on stopping somewhere. Maggie could almost hear him grinding his teeth, and he'd snatched the knife away from her so that he could stab it repeatedly into the seat beside him. She didn't pay much attention; her mind had long since fallen into shock, and only the vaguest of thoughts came to her. When they were almost an hour out into the country, though, the radio cleared a little and the killer turned the volume up to blast some song about sex and violence. The noise had been enough to shake her awake and sharpen her thoughts, and she started to cry softly.

She was a murderer on the run with her kidnapper. She was dead, or some form of it. She couldn't run away because the killer would find her, and she couldn't go home because he could follow her and hurt her family.

She let out a particularly despairing sob and the killer glanced over at her, finally noticing her tears. He squeezed the knife in his hand.

"The fuck's wrong with you?" he demanded. "You itchin' again?"

Maggie hid her face in her hands, trying to quiet her crying. The killer made an amused _tch_ sound and cranked the radio up louder, drumming the knife handle against the steering wheel. He was driving too fast, and the music was too loud.

"It hurts," Maggie moaned, covering her ears. She didn't see the way the killer was scoping out a clearing in the trees alongside the road. There was a driveway there, a nice paved one. The truck began to slow down.

"It only hurts at first," the killer said absently, eying the driveway. "It's a lot like fucking. You ever fucked anyone, Maggie May?"

Maggie was slung into the door as the killer turned into the paved drive too quickly, and the liquor bottle rolled into the floorboard, emptying its contents everywhere. The killer flicked the headlights off and tapped the brakes so as not to set them to screeching, and then they were rolling down the long drive. The trees were thick and uncleared on this property, shielding them and the big house up ahead from the road.

Most of the windows in the house were lit, and Maggie could just barely make out the shapes of people moving around inside one of the rooms on the first floor. The truck swayed and groaned as the killer turned off the drive and rolled slowly over the grass to park between a small barn and the edge of the woods. He killed the engine, and the thumping metal music died with it. A high-pitched tone rang in her ears.

Maggie watched as the killer pulled a second knife out from under his seat, the creaking of the leather loud in the sudden heavy quiet. This knife was smaller than the one he held in his other hand.

"Here," he said, holding the blade end out to her. Maggie hesitated and the killer made an impatient sound. She took it carefully.

The killer was already out of the truck when she was unbuckling her seatbelt, and he more or less wrenched her door open to drag her out. He was grinding his teeth hard now, breathing heavily. Maggie wondered just how much his "itch" was like hers.

They crept across the yard, keeping out of the spray of light around the front door and garage. The killer was still pretty drunk, and he zigzagged a little as he moved. Maggie kept a few paces behind him, not at all eager or intending to take any part in what was about to happen. It was cold, but her palms were sweating.

Maggie followed as the killer stepped up onto the wooden porch, moving as silently in his sneakers as she did in her bare feet. The killer didn't so much as glance back at her as he went, ducking beneath windows until he'd reached a back door that led through a screened-in bit of porch. He slipped inside, finding another door that led into the house; it was unlocked.

Maggie stayed crouched by the porch door as the killer eased the other open, peering around carefully. She heard laughter, multiple voices. There was the sound of silverware scraping, a fire crackling.

"Come on," the killer whispered impatiently when he saw her hanging back. Maggie didn't move, and his mutilated mouth twisted into something of a frown.

Maggie expected him to grab her and haul her with him, so she was surprised when he crept inside and shut the door behind him. She swallowed thickly and sat further back in the shadows, listening. Her heart throbbed in her ears.

The dreaded sound came quicker than expected. Maggie clenched the knife in her hands, trembling as the screaming and crashing of furniture began. She heard the killer shouting and laughing, another man swearing. There was a higher-pitched scream that made her blood curdle, a dull thud, and then everything fell quiet.

Maggie shuffled backward, preparing to bolt as she heard footsteps coming toward the door. It swung open, revealing the killer. Bright, fresh blood splattered his clothes and face. The inside of Maggie's skull began to itch at the sight of it.

"C'mere," the killer said, his voice surprisingly low and calm. He held a hand out to her, and Maggie shook her head. The itch spread, and she couldn't stop herself from scratching. The killer snickered.

"You can't wait too long," he said. "Not yet _. C'mere."_

Maggie was still scratching as he came over and grabbed her by the arm. She smelled the blood on him, and her mouth gushed even as she cringed away. The killer didn't get angry with her when her legs gave out and she fell to her knees, retching at the heady, coppery stench of the gore, but chuckled darkly. He hauled her half-upright and dragged her into the house, across the parquet floor, and all the way to the dining room.

Maggie moaned as the invisible fingernails in her skull scored deep.

There were three people, two of them women and one a man, lying in dark pools of cooling blood. Maggie retched again as some dark, new part of her mind began to fantasize about running her tongue through one of those blood pools. The killer's arm vised tighter around her waist to keep her from falling to the floor as her knees buckled again.

"I saved one just for you," he said with a giggle, pointing out another previously unnoticed form in the corner. He dragged Maggie across the stained carpet to bring her close and kicked the person over onto their back.

It was a girl, a couple years younger than Maggie. Her hair was dyed a pale violet and there was a ring through the middle of her nose. Blood trickled from a swelling split over her temple.

Maggie stared at the girl as the killer knelt down with her. The itch was still burning, but it seemed somewhat mollified by the presence of all of the blood and… something else that she couldn't put her finger on. A thread of spit dripped in front of her, and she realized that her mouth was lolling open. The girl's skin looked so soft, so vulnerable.

The killer brought her hand up, and Maggie half-realized that he was showing her how to position her grip on her knife's handle so it wouldn't slip. She hadn't noticed that she was still squeezing the thing, and her fingers ached as the killer pried them loose to move them. He murmured as he instructed her, and his breath was hot on her neck. The fingers of his free hand, still wrapped around her waist, casually explored under her pajama top. Maggie shivered as his thumb brushed across the lower swell of her breast.

The itch kicked up again as the killer began laying her blade against the girl's skin, showing her 'the fun places to stick.' His fingers remained firmly curled around Maggie's when she tried to break his grip, and she made a desperate sound. She didn't want to hurt the unconscious girl, but that new, horrible part of her mind very much did. She needed to break free, get away from the girl before she couldn't stop herself.

But the killer wouldn't allow it. He wrestled her easily into a painful hold when she tried to stand up, and held her there. He grinned sadistically as she whimpered and tried to twist away from the girl, and then pushed her head down until her nose was hovering over the little puddle of blood that had gathered from the girl's head wound. The scent made her shudder, and she was only half-revolted to realize that her mouth was watering again.

"Go on, baby," the killer's rough voice purred. "Get a little taste."

And to Maggie's horror, her mouth opened right up. Before she could stop herself, she had dipped the tip of her tongue into the gleaming puddle and lapped the stuff up. She instinctively twisted her face into an expression of disgust when the sharp tang hit her taste buds. She wanted to spit and gag, but her body refused; her tongue curled in her mouth and she swallowed the blood right down. The dark place in her mind sang with a pleasure that she had never fathomed existed.

The killer let go of her then, slowly as though he didn't fully trust her, but Maggie didn't run. She hunched over, shivering and lapping her tongue over her teeth to taste every last hint of the girl's blood. The little puddle by her head wouldn't be enough. Maggie unconsciously squeezed the knife in her hand as the dark place in her demanded something hot, something _fresh._ Her skull began to itch again.

She was only vaguely aware when the killer got up and moved around to crouch on the other side of the girl. He giggled and made a violent stabbing gesture. Maggie saw the girl's eyelids flicker, and then they were open. The girl blinked almost dreamily up at her before she spotted the knife hovering over her heart. Her chest swelled.

The piercing shriek that tore out of the girl made Maggie scream herself. It was as though the sound was fueling the scraping, the burning, the sheer _torture_ in the back of her skull. Maggie brought the knife down hard, and the blade sunk deep. The girl's shriek cranked up to an impossible octave, and Maggie yanked the knife back. She stabbed again, then again when the girl's screams didn't stop. _Shiick. Shiick. Shiick. Shiick._ Maggie felt blood on her face, stinging her eyes. She smelled it, too, and when it got in her mouth she didn't spit it out; it burned a coursing path down her throat as she swallowed.

At some point she realized that the itching had stopped, and that the only person making any noise anymore was the killer. He was laughing hysterically and rocking back and forth on his heels. His voice echoed in Maggie's skull as she felt the dark place in her mind go hazy, and then a strange and numbing pleasure was spreading through the rest of her consciousness. She realized she had stopped stabbing the girl's corpse, and she dropped her face in her hands. She cried and laughed all at once, sobbing as she inhaled and then laughing the breath out.

Maggie was wondering if she was losing her mind or if it was already gone when strong hands took hold of her shoulders and pulled her off of the girl. She was more laughing than crying now, and she took no note as the killer pushed her onto her back beside the girl's corpse. She only cackled as he tore the remaining shreds of her pajama shorts and underwear away.

The killer fumbled with his jeans until he'd pushed them down around his hips, and then he was hovering over her. Maggie stared up at him, her amusement fading as she read the feral lust in his expression. A part of her felt as though she should be scared, but she wasn't; the dark place was doing something to her, messing with her mind because she'd killed that girl. Maggie rolled her head to the left and looked at the corpse, expecting to be disgusted and brought to her senses. A shrill giggle escaped her lips instead, and there was no part of her that was able to feel anything that she should have.

The killer fucked her roughly on the bloody carpet, and Maggie didn't protest; the haze over her mind was mirroring his desires, making her want it as badly as he did. He was selfish, focusing purely on himself, but she didn't mind; she shamelessly ground her hips up against him, moaning and panting more, yes, _harder._ Her enthusiasm seemed to catch the killer by surprise at first, but then he acquiesced zealously, grunting and gripping her thighs hard enough to bruise. Maggie peaked once before the killer growled a curse, thrusting erratically, and went rigid. He leaned forward on his hands, resting on either side of her, and then bowed his head; his long hair brushed her skin as he panted softly.

Maggie gave a pained groan when he pulled out of her raw insides a moment later and zipped himself up. His eyes were deeply glazed now, as though every dark desire of his had been sated in short succession. He pushed himself up, rolling his shoulders lazily, and stepped carelessly over the corpses to wander into the kitchen.

Maggie lay on her back still, having followed the killer with her eyes as he disappeared. She felt sated, too, and for several long moments nothing in the world could have persuaded her to move. She was looking up at the ceiling, her mind blissfully empty, when a throbbing pain started up between her legs. She winced and shifted around, seeking relief from the steady ache, but it only grew worse. As the pain increased, the haze in her mind began to dissipate; it was quickly replaced by the natural anxiety and fear that she should have felt all along, and her body went rigid with shock.

_Jesus Christ._

She sat up as quickly as her abused body would allow, suddenly and painfully aware of everything she had just done. The urge to vomit rose in her, but she could only retch and spit clear fluid; her stomach was empty.

It took her several moments to get a better hold of herself, and when she did she realized that she was half-naked. Deciding that she'd rather not tempt the killer into round two, she looked around frantically for her pajama bottoms. She found them easily enough; they were lying in the dead girl's blood, completely soaked and completely destroyed.

Footsteps made her look up, and she saw the killer standing in the kitchen doorway. He had a beer in each hand and was smiling at her.

"You prob'ly can't wear those anymore," he said, his gaze resting on the torn and bloodied pajamas. "Go upstairs and find something else. Like what she's wearin'." Maggie looked at the dead girl as he nodded in her direction, indicating her skirt and fashionable thigh-highs.

The killer watched with wicked amusement as she stood up on shaky legs, pulling her pajama top down as far as it would go to cover herself. As she was stepping gingerly from the room, the killer told her to put on some makeup, too. He liked the dead girl's makeup, and he instructed her to mimic it. Maggie left the room without a word.

The girl's bedroom door was open when Maggie climbed upstairs. A glittery lava lamp bathed the room in a pink glow, giving off enough light to barely see by, and Maggie decided against flipping the overhead light on; she didn't want to know anything about the person she'd killed, what sort of band posters she had on her walls, or what kind of pictures she took of herself and her friends. It would just make everything that much more difficult.

She went through the girl's dresser and closet until she found something that matched the killer's demands; a short skirt, a long-sleeved shirt, and a pair of tall socks. As she stripped out of her destroyed and bloodied clothing, she realized just how caked in gore she was herself. Bile rose in her throat, and she covered her mouth. She needed to bathe.

The girl had a private bathroom, complete with a shower, but Maggie didn't necessarily want to put herself in such a vulnerable position while the killer was around. She briefly entertained the idea of staying dirty and just putting on the clean clothes, but when she lifted her foot to step into the skirt, the blood crunching in the bend of her knee made her cringe.

She shut the bedroom door, thanking whatever god there might be that the thing had a lock, and went to the bathroom. She locked that door too, then climbed into the shower and cranked the heat up as high as she could stand. Blood ran off of her in rust-colored streaks.

Even though she'd never felt filthier in her life, the shower was one of the quickest ones Maggie had ever taken. Fearing that the killer would make his way upstairs if he heard the water running, she scrubbed herself so quickly and vigorously that she couldn't tell if the pink on her skin was bloodstains or her own irritated flesh. She listened constantly for the sound of the bedroom door being kicked in, freezing in place more than once when she thought she'd heard something.

The killer never kicked in the door, though, and Maggie daringly allowed herself time to towel her clean and scrubbed-raw flesh dry. The bedroom door was still closed and locked when she stepped out of the bathroom, and she could hear the TV on downstairs. Her heart lifted a little, and she went over to clothes lying on the bed.

The room upstairs was cold, and Maggie began to realize as she dressed just how miserable she was going to be in the outfit she'd picked; it was much colder outside, and she was already shivering. Granted, her hair was wet, but that didn't change how little insulation these clothe would offer. She was holding the skirt out and eyeing it distastefully when she heard the killer laugh downstairs, long and loud. He seemed to be in a good mood, and that emboldened her.

Tossing the clothes on the bed, Maggie went back to the closet and selected her own outfit for the cold weather. She knew that she would have to meet the killer in the middle, however, and so she kept the insulated thigh-highs.

* * *

The killer was splayed out on the couch, watching some badly animated show with gratuitous amounts of gore. He glanced up when Maggie came downstairs, and then his attention was all on her. He put his beer down on the coffee table.

"That's not what I told you to wear," he said with a frown. He turned fully around on the couch and eyed her outfit darkly.

She was wearing the thigh-highs, as instructed, and she'd done her makeup in the showy fashion of the dead girl's lavender lipstick and winged eyeliner, but she was wearing a sweater-dress instead of a skirt. The black, baggy sweater was thick and warm, and it was the only thing Maggie could find that met the killer's requirements halfway. Her legs would still be uncomfortably cool, but she was much better off than she would be in a flimsy skirt.

"I tried some skirts on," Maggie lied, "but none of them fit." The killer tilted his chin up at her, his sharp eyes reading her face carefully. Maggie shifted nervously in leather boots that truly were a half-size too small, fearful that he would see through her and react badly.

"I guess that's all right, then," the killer mumbled, and she almost fainted with relief. He gestured at her to come closer, and she hesitantly obeyed until she was standing no more than a foot from him. Still seated, the killer reached out and stroked the gap of skin showing between her insulated socks and the sweater's hem. Maggie clenched her teeth.

"Yeah," he said, more to himself than her. He put his hands on her hips and turned her around, scrutinizing every inch of her. Maggie tensed when he pulled the sweater's hem up and ogled her underwear. She hadn't been able to find anything as modest as she would have liked in that girl's dresser, and so she was wearing lacy red boy-shorts. The killer slipped a finger under the panties and ran it along the curve of her asscheek, inciting an unwelcome shiver in her.

"Yeah, I'll let you wear it," he said, drawing back at last. Maggie pulled the sweater down and made to move away, but the killer's hand flashed out and snagged her wrist. He pulled her in front of him again and read the white letters printed across her chest:

" ' _SATAN IS A'WAITIN,' "_ he said aloud. He burst out laughing and let go of her, reclining back on the couch and cracking open another beer. "Go eat something," he told her, still chuckling in his gritty voice. "We're leavin' soon."

Maggie stared at the back of the killer's head as he stretched a long arm across the couch back and crossed his feet on the coffee table. She went into the kitchen then, taking the long way around to avoid dining room, and stood in the dark for several minutes. She wasn't hungry, but she couldn't remember the last time she had eaten. She wasn't even sure if she needed to eat, being dead or some form of it, but the killer had told her to do so. Slowly, grudgingly, Maggie dug out some bread and cold cuts to make a sandwich.

"Pack some stuff, too!" the killer's muffled voice reached her.

Maggie mechanically ate half of her sandwich, then set about collecting canned food and bottled water. There was a backpack on the little table in the breakfast nook, its Hello Kitty pattern suggesting that it belonged to the dead pastel goth girl; Maggie dumped all of the foodstuffs it, then stopped to think. She took the backpack and went upstairs, creeping quietly so as to not attract the killer's attention, and collected a hairbrush and some other toiletries. In all of the insanity going on around her, it was grounding to think about using a hairbrush.

"Maggie May," the killer called ominously from downstairs, and she hurriedly gathered everything up. The killer was waiting for her at the bottom of the stairs, his arms crossed. He was tapping a knife against his bloody sleeve.

"I was just getting some things," Maggie said quickly, apprehensive of the way he was looking at her. His dangerous expression softened somewhat when he saw the cartoon-themed backpack slung over her shoulder.

"Well, aren't you fuckin' precious?" he purred, the grit in his voice making it sound more like a growl. Maggie decidedly quickly that she preferred the murderous look he had been giving her moments earlier. His eyes trailed hungrily over her figure, and she felt dread welling up in her chest.

"I need to pack the beer for you," she said suddenly, and the killer raised his eyes to her face again. "You want me to pack that, right?" The killer watched her for a moment, his gaze suddenly hard, and she held her breath. Had she said the wrong thing? He drank like a fucking fish, from what she saw. It would be her luck, though, that now would be the time that he took offense to someone noticing…

She exhaled shakily as the killer stepped away from the stairs and nodded for her to go into the kitchen. She slipped past him, but her chest tightened when she heard footsteps behind her. She had been hoping that he would go back to the couch, but she wasn't so lucky; she'd aroused his suspicion by sneaking upstairs, and now he was following her.

"It's awfully thoughtful of you," he said over her shoulder as they stepped into the kitchen. Maggie didn't turn on the light, and neither did the killer. She went over to the fridge and grabbed the remaining two cans of beer with shaking hands; her skin was so chilled that they hardly felt cold.

"I figured you would want me to pack it," she muttered, not trusting her voice if she raised it any louder. The killer stood directly behind her as she knelt down and put the beer into the backpack.

"I want you to stand up," he said flatly. Maggie froze fearfully in place, hesitating just long enough to incite the killer's temper. He grabbed her by her hair and pulled her upright.

"Walk over to that table," he ordered, pushing her toward the breakfast nook. Maggie nervously did as she was told, then turned around to face him. Even in the dark, the expression on his face easily suggested that he was about to do something terrible to her.

"Bend over it."

Maggie's lip quivered. She hesitated only until he began stalking toward her, and then she sobbed and whirled around to drop her elbows onto the table. The killer came quickly up behind her and forced her down hard, pushing her until she was lying on her front. He clasped the back of her neck with one hand and leaned his weight against her; he was hard through his jeans, and he pushed himself forcefully enough against her for her to know it.

"D'you want it, Maggie May?" he asked as she gripped the table, her eyes wide with terror. "I'd like to give it to you again. Or, maybe you want this instead?..."

Maggie cried out as she felt something cold and sharp press against the inside of her thigh, but it didn't cut. The killer stroked the flat of the knife up and down slowly, pressuring just hard enough to threaten a slice before moving along. Maggie held breathlessly still, her body rigid with fear.

"Please," she began, but the killer cut her off.

"I can do whatever I want to you," he said darkly. The statement wasn't edged with mockery, but said in all seriousness. It terrified her utterly. "I can cut you up and send you to sleep real slow, but you'll always come back to me. I can do it as many times as I like. You understand that, right?"

"Yes," Maggie said quickly, unable to keep from trembling now. She didn't actually understand at all, but she was willing to say anything to appease the killer in this moment. He seemed to sense this, because he slid the cold blade up to rest against her through her panties. Maggie bit back a scream.

"Repeat after me, Maggie May," the killer said softly. _"'I am your proxy.'"_

"I'm your proxy," Maggie gasped.

_"'I will never run away.'"_

"I'll never run away-

_"'And I will do everything you tell me, right when you tell me.'"_

"I'll do everything you tell me, right when you tell me!"

The blade slid slowly upward, dangerously caressing the curve of her ass, and then it was gone.

"Good girl," the killer said. He released her and moved away. Maggie pushed herself slowly upright and turned around, her entire body slicked with a film of cold sweat. The killer was picking the backpack up. He brought it over to her and told her to put it on, his tone and body language daring her to do otherwise. She put the backpack on without hesitation.

They left the house immediately after, the killer still carrying the knife in his hand. He slashed idly at the air as Maggie walked beside him, where he had directed her to. The tightly-packed bag over her shoulder was already threatening to start an ache.

The killer led her around the back of the house and started purposefully toward the woods. Maggie didn't understand why they weren't going back to the truck, but she didn't say a word. It wasn't like she had any sort of choice. Hiking the backpack higher, she crunched through the dead leaves alongside her kidnapper. A cold wind blew her damp hair around, setting her to shivering.

"Y'know," the psychopath said suddenly, "you didn't say thank you earlier. In the kitchen."

"Thank you," Maggie said as sincerely as she could.

"Thank you, what?"

"Thank you, sir." The killer startled her by throwing his head back and laughing harshly.

"Fuck, babygirl," he said with a chuckle. "Call me _Jeff_."


End file.
